Dumb Witness

  “Yes, it was horrible… It was also unsuccessful… Miss Arundell was very little hurt though she might easily have broken her neck. Very disappointing for our unknown friend! But Miss Arundell was a sharp-witted old lady. Everyone told her she had slipped on the ball, and there the ball was in evidence, but she herself recalling the happening felt that the accident had arisen differently. She had not slipped on the ball. And in addition she remembered something else. She remembered hearing Bob barking for admission at five o’clock the next morning.

  “This, I admit, is something in the way of guesswork but I believe I am right. Miss Arundell had put away Bob’s ball herself the evening before in its drawer. After that he went out and did not return. In that case it was not Bob who put that ball on the top of the stairs.”

  “That is pure guesswork, Poirot,” I objected.

  He demurred.

  “Not quite, my friend. There are the significant words uttered by Miss Arundell when she was delirious—something about Bob’s ball and a ‘picture ajar.’ You see the point, do you not?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Curious. I know your language well enough to realize that one does not talk of a picture being ajar. A door is ajar. A picture is awry.”

  “Or simply crooked.”

  “Or simply crooked, as you say. So I realized at once that Ellen has mistaken the meaning of the words she heard. It is not ajar—but a or the jar that was meant. Now in the drawing room there is a rather noticeable china jar. There, I have already observed a picture of a dog on it. With the remembrance of these delirious ravings in my mind I go up and examine it more closely. I find that it deals with the subject of a dog who has been out all night. You see the trend of the feverish woman’s thoughts? Bob was like the dog in the picture on the jar—out all night—so it was not he who left the ball on the stairs.”

  I cried out, feeling some admiration in spite of myself.

  “You’re an ingenious devil, Poirot! How you think of these things beats me!”

  “I do not ‘think of them.’ They are there—plain—for anyone to see. Eh bien, you realize the position? Miss Arundell, lying in bed after her fall, becomes suspicious. That suspicion she feels is perhaps fanciful and absurd but there it is. ‘Since the incident of the dog’s ball I have been increasingly uneasy.’ And so—and so she writes to me, and by a piece of bad luck her letter does not reach me until over two months have gone by. Tell me, does her letter not fit in perfectly with these facts?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “It does.”

  Poirot went on:

  “There is another point worthy of consideration. Miss Lawson was exceedingly anxious that the fact of Bob’s being out all night should not get to Miss Arundell’s ears.”

  “You think that she—”

  “I think that the fact should be noted very carefully.”

  I turned the thing over in my mind for a minute or two.

  “Well,” I said at last with a sigh. “It’s all very interesting—as a mental exercise that is. And I take off my hat to you. It’s been a masterful piece of reconstruction. It’s almost a pity really that the old lady has died.”

  “A pity—yes. She wrote to me that someone had attempted to murder her (that is what it amounts to, after all) and a very short time after, she was dead.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And it’s a grand disappointment to you that she died a natural death, isn’t it? Come, admit it.”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Or perhaps you think she was poisoned,” I said maliciously. Poirot shook his head somewhat despondently.

  “It certainly seems,” he admitted, “as though Miss Arundell died from natural causes.”

  “And therefore,” I said, “we return to London with our tail between our legs.”

  “Pardon, my friend, but we do not return to London.”

  “What do you mean, Poirot,” I cried.

  “If you show the dog the rabbit, my friend, does he return to London? No, he goes into the rabbit hole.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers. We have here a murderer—a murderer whose crime failed, yes, perhaps, but nevertheless a murderer. And I, my friend, am going into the burrow after him—or her as the case may be.”

  He turned sharply in at the gate.

  “Where are you off to, Poirot?”

  “Into the burrow, my friend. This is the house of Dr. Grainger who attended Miss Arundell in her last illness.”

  Dr. Grainger was a man of sixty odd. His face was thin and bony with an aggressive chin, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of very shrewd eyes. He looked keenly from me to Poirot.

  “Well, what can I do for you?” he asked abruptly.

  Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant manner.

  “I must apologize, Dr. Grainger, for this intrusion. I must confess straightaway that I do not come to consult you professionally.”

  Dr. Grainger said drily:

  “Glad to hear it. You look healthy enough!”

  “I must explain the purpose of my visit,” went on Poirot. “The truth of the matter is that I am writing a book—the life of the late General Arundell who I understand lived in Market Basing for some years before his death.”

  The doctor looked rather surprised.

  “Yes, General Arundell lived here till his death. At Littlegreen House—just up the road past the Bank—you’ve been there, perhaps?” Poirot nodded assent. “But you understand that was a good bit before my time. I came here in 1919.”

  “You knew his daughter, however, the late Miss Arundell?”

  “I knew Emily Arundell well.”

  “You comprehend, it has been a severe blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has recently died.”

  “End of April.”

  “So I discovered. I counted, you see, on her giving me various personal details and reminiscences of her father.”

  “Quite—quite. But I don’t see what I can do about it.”

  Poirot asked:

  “General Arundell has no other sons or daughters living?”

  “No. All dead, the lot of them.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Five. Four daughters, one son.”

  “And in the next generation?”

  “Charles Arundell and his sister Theresa. You could get onto them. I doubt, though, if it would be much use to you. The younger generation doesn’t take much interest in its grandfathers. And there’s a Mrs. Tanios, but I doubt if you’d get much there either.”

  “They might have family papers—documents?”

  “They might have. Doubt it, though. A lot of stuff was cleared out and burnt after Miss Emily’s death, I know.”

  Poirot uttered a groan of anguish.

  Grainger looked at him curiously.

  “What’s the interest in old Arundell? I never heard he was a big pot in any way?”

  “My dear sir.” Poirot’s eyes gleamed with the excitement of the fanatic. “Is there not a saying that History knows nothing of its greatest men? Recently certain papers have come to light which throw an entirely different light on the whole subject of the Indian Mutiny. There is secret history there. And in that secret history John Arundell played a big part. The whole thing is fascinating—fascinating! And let me tell you, my dear sir, it is of especial interest at the present time. India—the English policy in regard to it—is the burning question of the hour.”

  “H’m,” said the doctor. “I have heard that old General Arundell used to hold forth a good deal on the subject of the Mutiny. As a matter of fact, he was considered a prize bore on the subject.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A Miss Peabody. You might call on her, by the way. She’s our oldest inhabitant—knew the Arundells intimately. And gossip is her chief recreation. She’s worth seeing for her own sake—a character.”

  “Thank you. That is an excellent idea. Perhaps, too, you would give m
e the address of young Mr. Arundell, the grandson of the late General Arundell.”

  “Charles? Yes, I can put you onto him. But he’s an irreverent young devil. Family history means nothing to him.”

  “He is quite young?”

  “He’s what an old fogy like me calls young,” said the doctor with a twinkle. “Early thirties. The kind of young man that’s born to be a trouble and responsibility to their families. Charm of personality and nothing else. He’s been shipped about all over the world and done no good anywhere.”

  “His aunt was doubtless fond of him?” ventured Poirot. “It is often that way.”

  “H’m—I don’t know. Emily Arundell was no fool. As far as I know he never succeeded in getting any money out of her. Bit of a tartar that old lady. I liked her. Respected her too. An old soldier every inch of her.”

  “Was her death sudden?”

  “Yes, in a way. Mind you, she’d been in poor health for some years. But she’d pulled through some narrow squeaks.”

  “There was some story—I apologize for repeating gossip—” Poirot spread out his hands deprecatingly—“that she had quarrelled with her family?”

  “She didn’t exactly quarrel with them,” said Dr. Grainger slowly. “No, there was no open quarrel as far as I know.”

  “I beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being indiscreet.”

  “No, no. After all, the information’s public property.”

  “She left her money away from her family, I understand?”

  “Yes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Can’t understand it myself. Not like her.”

  “Ah, well,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “One can imagine such a thing happening. An old lady, frail and in ill health. Very dependent on the person who attends and cares for her. A clever woman with a certain amount of personality could gain a great ascendency that way.”

  The word ascendency seemed to act like a red rag to a bull.

  Dr. Grainger snorted out:

  “Ascendency? Ascendency? Nothing of the kind! Emily Arundell treated Minnie Lawson worse than a dog. Characteristic of that generation! Anyway, women who earn their living as companions are usually fools. If they’ve got brains they’re earning a better living some other way. Emily Arundell didn’t suffer fools gladly. She usually wore out one poor devil a year. Ascendency? Nothing of the sort!”

  Poirot hastened off the treacherous ground.

  “It is possible, perhaps,” he suggested, “that there are old family letters and documents in this Miss—er—Lawson’s possession?”

  “Might be,” agreed Grainger. “Usually are a lot of things tucked away in an old maid’s house. I don’t suppose Miss Lawson’s been through half of it yet.”

  Poirot rose.

  “Thank you very much, Dr. Grainger. You have been most kind.”

  “Don’t thank me,” said the doctor. “Sorry I can’t do anything helpful. Miss Peabody’s your best chance. Lives at Morton Manor—about a mile out.”

  Poirot was sniffing at a large bouquet of roses on the doctor’s table.

  “Delicious,” he murmured.

  “Yes, I suppose so. Can’t smell ’em myself. Lost my sense of smell when I had flu four years ago. Nice admission for a doctor, eh? ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ Damned nuisance. Can’t enjoy a smoke as I used to.”

  “Unfortunate, yes. By the way, you will give me young Arundell’s address?”

  “I can get it for you, yes.” He ushered us out into the hall and called: “Donaldson.”

  “My partner,” he explained. “He should have it all right. He’s by way of being engaged to Charles’s sister, Theresa.”

  He called again: “Donaldson.”

  A young man came out from a room at the back of the house. He was of medium height and of rather colourless appearance. His manner was precise. A greater contrast to Dr. Grainger could not be imagined.

  The latter explained what he wanted.

  Dr. Donaldson’s eyes, very pale blue eyes slightly prominent, swept over us appraisingly. When he spoke it was in a dry, precise manner.

  “I don’t know exactly where Charles is to be found,” he said. “I can give you Miss Theresa Arundell’s address. Doubtless she will be able to put you in touch with her brother.”

  Poirot assured him that that would do perfectly.

  The doctor wrote down an address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Poirot. Poirot thanked him and said good-bye to both doctors. As we went out of the door I was conscious of Dr. Donaldson standing in the hall peering after us with a slightly startled look on his face.

  Ten

  VISIT TO MISS PEABODY

  “Is it really necessary to tell such elaborate lies, Poirot?” I asked as we walked away.

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “If one is going to tell a lie at all—and I notice, by the way, that your nature is very much averse to lying—now, me, it does not trouble at all—”

  “So I’ve noticed,” I interjected.

  “—As I was remarking, if one is going to tell a lie at all, it might as well be an artistic lie, a romantic lie, a convincing lie!”

  “Do you consider this a convincing lie? Do you think Dr. Donaldson was convinced?”

  “That young man is of a sceptical nature,” admitted Poirot, thoughtfully.

  “He looked definitely suspicious to me.”

  “I do not see why he should be so. Imbeciles are writing the lives of other imbeciles every day. It is as you say, done.”

  “First time I’ve heard you call yourself an imbecile,” I said, grinning.

  “I can adopt a rôle, I hope, as well as anyone,” said Poirot coldly. “I am sorry you do not think my little fiction well imagined. I was rather pleased with it myself.”

  I changed the subject.

  “What do we do next?”

  “That is easy. We get into your car and pay a visit to Morton Manor.”

  Morton Manor proved to be an ugly substantial house of the Victorian period. A decrepit butler received us somewhat doubtfully and presently returned to ask if “we had an appointment.”

  “Please tell Miss Peabody that we come from Dr. Grainger,” said Poirot.

  After a wait of a few minutes the door opened and a short fat woman waddled into the room. Her sparse, white hair was neatly parted in the middle. She wore a black velvet dress, the nap of which was completely rubbed off in various places, and some really beautiful fine point lace was fastened at her neck with a large cameo brooch.

  She came across the room peering at us shortsightedly. Her first words were somewhat of a surprise.

  “Got anything to sell?”

  “Nothing, madame,” said Poirot.

  “Sure?”

  “But absolutely.”

  “No vacuum cleaners?”

  “No.”

  “No stockings?”

  “No.”

  “No rugs?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, well,” said Miss Peabody, settling herself in a chair. “I suppose it’s all right. You’d better sit down then.”

  We sat obediently.

  “You’ll excuse my asking,” said Miss Peabody with a trace of apology in her manner. “Got to be careful. You wouldn’t believe the people who come along. Servants are no good. They can’t tell. Can’t blame ’em either. Right voices, right clothes, right names. How are they to tell? Commander Ridgeway, Mr. Scot Edgerton, Captain d’Arcy Fitzherbert. Nice-looking fellows, some of ’em. But before you know where you are they’ve shoved a cream-making machine under your nose.”

  Poirot said earnestly:

  “I assure you, madame, that we have nothing whatever of that kind.”

  “Well, you should know,” said Miss Peabody.

  Poirot plunged into his story. Miss Peabody heard him out without comment, blinking once or twice out of her small eyes. At the end she said:

  “Goin’ to write a book, eh?”

&n
bsp; “Yes.”

  “In English?”

  “Certainly—in English.”

  “But you’re a foreigner. Eh? Come now, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you?”

  “That is true.”

  She transferred her gaze to me.

  “You are his secretary, I suppose?”

  “Er—yes,” I said doubtfully.

  “Can you write decent English?”

  “I hope so.”

  “H’m—where did you go to school?”

  “Eton.”

  “Then you can’t.”

  I was forced to let this sweeping charge against an old and venerable centre of education pass unchallenged as Miss Peabody turned her attention once more to Poirot.

  “Goin’ to write a life of General Arundell, eh?”

  “Yes. You knew him, I think.”

  “Yes, I knew John Arundell. He drank.”

  There was a momentary pause. Then Miss Peabody went on musingly:

  “Indian Mutiny, eh? Seems a bit like flogging a dead horse to me. But that’s your business.”

  “You know, madame, there is a fashion in these things. At the moment India is the mode.”

  “Something in that. Things do come round. Look at sleeves.”

  We maintained a respectful silence.

  “Leg o’ muttons were always ugly,” said Miss Peabody. “But I always looked well in Bishops.” She fixed a bright eye on Poirot. “Now then, what do you want to know?”

  Poirot spread out his hands.

  “Anything! Family history. Gossip. Home life.”

  “Can’t tell you anything about India,” said Miss Peabody. “Truth is, I didn’t listen. Rather boring these old men and their anecdotes. He was a very stupid man—but I daresay none the worse General for that. I’ve always heard that intelligence didn’t get you far in the army. Pay attention to your Colonel’s wife and listen respectfully to your superior officers and you’ll get on—that’s what my father used to say.”

  Treating this dictum respectfully, Poirot allowed a moment or two to elapse before he said:

  “You knew the Arundell family intimately, did you not?”

  “Knew ’em all,” said Miss Peabody. “Matilda, she was the eldest. A spotty girl. Used to teach in Sunday School. Was sweet on one of the curates. Then there was Emily. Good seat on a horse, she had. She was the only one who could do anything with her father when he had one of his bouts on. Cartloads of bottles used to be taken out of that house. Buried them at night, they did. Then, let me see, who came next, Arabella or Thomas? Thomas, I think. Always felt sorry for Thomas. One man and four women. Makes a man look a fool. He was a bit of an old woman himself, Thomas was. Nobody thought he’d ever marry. Bit of a shock when he did.”